


if i could dance with you again

by kaermorons



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Author plays with gender fast and loose, Both characters are genderfluid, F/F, F/M, Historical artistic liberties have been taken and run with etc., M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Other, Pronouns change like literally every time, finished writing this at five am and posted it thusly, ill edit this later she said lying, masks and disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21692464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: What would you say, and what would you doIf they weren’t them, and you weren’t you?Five times Crowley and Aziraphale did what they wanted in disguise, and once (and forever) they did it without disguises at all.Title from Dancing With Our Hands Tied by Taylor Swift.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	if i could dance with you again

> Venice, 1634

The first masked party they’d arrived at, it had been in Venice, just after the largest part of the plague hit. Masks were stuffed with cloying herbs and spices to drown out the smell of death and waste in the streets. Carnival was just underway, a traditional two-week affair of blatant sin and masked confidence. Couples danced in the streets and kissed against walls, drink flowed insistently past lips and into bellies, supposedly in the name of getting all your sins out before Lent. Venice, Crowley thought, knew how to party.

Finding a quiet place to stand watch and observe the revelry he’d take credit for much later on, Crowley watched the crowd with slight disinterest. He sipped from a bottle, some nasty grappa that deserved to get chucked in the sea. His mask was a hastily made effort to conceal his nose and eyes, complete with a transparent mesh to hide his demonic features. It wasn’t anything he’d want to hold onto, by any means. It was stranger to go about without a mask than it was to hide, this time of year. A large group of women walked by, ribbons tied to their waists, some game brave young men played. One woman in particular stood out.

She was in a stunning white silk gown, embroidered with gold along the hems, images of wheat and flowers crawling up her bodice. A deep red ribbon hung loosely around her waist. Her long white hair was secured messily at her nape, she’d obviously been enjoying festivities for awhile to look this relaxed. In her white, manicured hands, she held a simple cup of wine, which she raised to a plush mouth, stained red by her drink. There was a glow about her that only shined brighter when she laughed, a tinkling bell noise that turned heads. Her mask was a solid gold, simple and unadorned with the popular beading this time of year. Crowley would know his angel anywhere. He pushed off the wall and followed the group, falling into step beside the woman.

“ _Buona sera_ , angel.” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale almost dropped the wine in her hand as she whirled on the demon beside her. She looked up, bright blue eyes peering through large openings in the mask. “Enjoying your evening?”

“Well in fact, I was.” Aziraphale seems to recover, taking a sip from her wine to steady her. “Just looking after my...oh, I’ve lost my group.” She sighs in frustration, her party having taken a sudden turn around some corner.

“Don’t look so distraught. I won’t let you be lonely.” Crowley offers an arm, heart pounding in his chest as he waited for a reply. “We’re in masks, nobody will know the wiser.” He assures breathlessly.

Aziraphale considers him a moment, and then surprises even herself by putting her arm in the taller man’s. “We are strangers like this.” She agrees. They start to walk.

“And what do strangers talk about at _Il Carnevale_?” Crowley asks, looking pointedly ahead. “The number of affectionate, unmarried couples? The priests will have a hard time getting all those confessions out come Wednesday.” He smirks as he feels the lady at his right tense up.

“This is a celebration of freedom. It started over four hundred years ago and the Italians don’t want to thumb their noses at tradition.” She sounds so righteous. Typical.

“Well then. Can’t argue with tradition. Hard to break, that.” They take a turn and wander over a bridge. A couple kisses in the bottom of a gondola, beneath their feet. “Feeling the love tonight?”

Now that was a question to make Aziraphale blush. “Exceptionally so.” Crowley noted the blush seemed to creep down her neck, and settle around her collarbone, just under a black beaded necklace, better suited for a man to wear. Crowley zeroed in on it.

“Where’d you get this trinket, angel?” He asks, reaching up and gently touching the silver beads. Aziraphale flinches away on instinct.

“Excuse you.” She says reflexively. “It was a gift, I’ll have you know.”

“Ahh, a gift. Who shall I have to fight for your affections tonight?” Crowley flirts shamelessly.

“Nobody you’ll find here. He’s off in France, now.” She sounds rather smug.

“Even better. I’ve wanted to cause trouble there for awhile. You’ll be kind to give me the scoundrel’s name.”

“He’s not a scoundrel!” She protests. “In fact, he’s a very nice man. Talented, with an eye for nature.”

“I could have an eye for nature. You don’t know anything about me. I could be a very nice man and you wouldn’t even know it.” Crowley is teasing Aziraphale now.

“I believe I have very good instincts on your nature, Signore.” Oh, this is fun now. The angel is playing along.

“What have you discovered so far, _mia bella_?” Crowley notices they’re walking closer to a throng of dancers and picks up the pace.

“I’ve noticed...hm. You’re probably a terrible dancer.” Crowley is almost shocked.

Affronted, he takes her hand and leads her into the fray. “I’ll prove to you I’m not.”

“How terribly proud of you.” Aziraphale laughs. They follow the steps of those around them, spinning and twirling together to music played by increasingly-drunken musicians. Crowley is, in fact, a wonderful dancer in his own mind, has a thing for rhythm unlike anybody else in hell. Aziraphale doesn’t so much as dance with him as she does let herself be danced with, spinning with Crowley’s hands on her waist, lifting her as if she were light as a feather. Angels were, in fact, lighter than a feather, as they did not so much exist on earth as ideas existed on earth.

They laughed as song after song ended and started and ended again. The sun was just peeking out above the water as they grew weary. Aziraphale’s hair was now hanging in ringlets down her back and across her shoulders, very unbecoming of a proper angel, should she be worrying about that kind of thing right now.

“Signore, what have you noticed about me? Your eyes are shrouded, so you must be able to see more than you let on.” They were on a bench now, resting their feet and watching the sunrise. Crowley was letting the warmth sink into his bones, but perhaps he was just enjoying being next to his angel so freely.

“ _Bella_ ,” he drawled once more. “It is you that cannot dance properly to save her life. You love being carried by music and are enough of a romantic to allow a stranger to spin you into a frenzy. For all your virtues, signorina, you crave a scandal so long as you can distance yourself from the fallout. You probably have a large collection of novels telling stories of illicit romance, star-crossed affairs, and the darkest parts of man’s imagination. How am I doing?”

Aziraphale sighed and smiled. She was the sun, for all Crowley knew. “Passable. Keep going, you’re getting warmer.”

“Perhaps you like to play pretend from the safety of an armchair. This confidence of wearing a mask is brand new to you. It was my charm that convinced you to cease your rebuffs of any other man’s advances. You crave more than you can have.”

“You speak with such confidence, signore. You may be too bold.” She is breathless, looking up at him now. Her face glows with early morning sunlight, cheeks still tinged with red from the February cold.

“I know it is true. For I, too crave that which I cannot have.” They’re practically whispering, holding each other as if the city were to possibly be swept away by a wave. “I can only steal what I don’t deserve, small moments in time that I will hold to my chest like a wound.”

The moment became etched in history as one of the most romantic scenes, the sun rising behind their faces, warming cold stone that could not appreciate the heat save for when it was gone. Longing, love, adoration, need, want, centuries of hunger passed between the two, in touch and look and soft wine-scented breath.

The bench was empty but a moment later, two masks sitting side by side.

* * *

> London, 1732

Vauxhall Gardens had just been restored, and of course, there was a party. It was in fashion to hide one’s face, as the tradition had spilled over from Italy just a few years prior. It was almost a surprise, but not an outright shock, for Aziraphale to see Crowley at one of these events. The demon had almost always flocked to great displays of landscaping, though he always sought to refute the claim. Walking casually up to the demon, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Enjoying yourself this evening?” He asked pleasantly.

Crowley had the audacity to look around at who was talking before looking down at Aziraphale. “Well, I was.” He snarked, giving a small nod to the angel. “I’ve still not forgiven you for Spain.” He huffed.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, my dear boy.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, and looked out over the expansive gardens. The air smelled fresh and damp, and he’d remember it for the rest of his existence.

“Oh, we’re playing that game now, are we.” Crowley says. “Fine then. May I make your acquaintance, milord?” He gave a little bow, shaking his head with a flourish.

“You may not. That is a privilege to be earned.” Aziraphale said snootily. He’d regret that tone in about seventy years, give or take.

“Goodness, forgive my impertinence, milord, may I beseech your forgiveness before night’s end?” Crowley had an awful habit of taking advantage of Aziraphale’s high horse behavior and turning it on its head. Aziraphale would never catch on to the teasing.

“You’re being ridiculous. Just behave yourself and I shall tell you my name.” And with that the rules were set.

Crowley patrolled around Aziraphale’s person throughout the evening, ensuring his wine was always full, a treat was always at hand, and his lapel was always full of flowers.

“There. Should do.” He mumbled as he pinned another rose through the coat.

“If I tell you my blessed name, will you cease?!” Aziraphale sputtered, making Crowley’s grin widen.

“And what if I cease ceasing?” Crowley tilted his head.

“Then I’ll…” the angel fluttered his hands wildly, repressing the words he wished to say. 

“Milord, your word is my command. Just tell me how you wish for me to behave, and I shall.” Crowley knew he was flustering Aziraphale, he just didn’t think his angel would mind so much he flushed.

“Then shut your mouth. We are in public. Do you know the scandal it would cause if…” Aziraphale looked around cautiously, seeing no eyes toward them. “If people _gossiped_ about us…”

“About us doing what, milord?” Crowley asked, committing that blush to memory. “Nothing that would… be untoward, perhaps?”

“Rightly so, you rapscallion.” The angel was getting pushed to his breaking point. Only a few more moves and Crowley will have picked the lock.

“Ooh, such harsh words. Ease my pain, milord, speak now and my advances shall cease, I shall push no further than this distance you have placed.” He held his hands above his heart, drama flowing like wine at the party nearby. “How such a stranger should have bewitched me, I—”

His words were cut off suddenly by two strong hands gripping his lapels, pulling him into the hedge maze. He was led around corners in an unearthly manner, speed blurring the greenery around him. Oh, he liked this pace. They got themselves suitably lost by the time the angel had composed himself.

“Now that you have me alone, what is it to be? A flogging? A stern talking to? Do your worst, angel, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”

“You are insufferable.” Aziraphale groaned.

“You suffer me quite fetchingly.” Crowley leered. “Perhaps you could suffer me a dance for my troubles.”

This stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. It had been a hundred years since they had last danced, and the circumstances were quite different then. It had only taken five thousand years, but Crowley saw that his angel had finally grown a poker face. It made him almost regret his decision to offer a dance.

“One dance.” Aziraphale says. “If you will leave me alone for a blessed moment so I can get some work done.” Crowley was already bounding up.

“Lovely.” He held his hands out, and the angel shook his head.

“I’ll lead, thank you very much.” He demanded, and they took three paces apart. The music from the main party was barely audible, but these were not humans deep in this maze, dancing in the dark.

These were not friends, sharing a drunken jaunt. These weren’t even acquaintances. They both swallowed nervously as their palms touched, going round and round in circles and stepping around invisible partners. They were something else, something ineffable which was not to be defined for many years to come. Crowley only knew one thing by the end: he would not let whatever this was go, and he would protect it with everything he had just to dance again with his angel.

* * *

> New York City, 1923

It had been a horribly hot and humid summer, and autumn had come not a moment too soon. Fashion had changed much for the better, and Crowley was loving the intricate beading and rising hemlines, it was making her job rather easy. The turn to Prohibition had put a damper on things, definitely, but it made the opportunities to live largely even sweeter than the lavish parties of pre-Revolutionary France. Crowley knew how to keep secrets, and she thrived in those moments of stolen revelry.

There was supposedly a grand party in West Egg, at some contact’s contact’s mansion. There were many of these parties cropping up around New York this decade, all of which fell under the same umbrella of bootlegged alcohol, fast-paced dancing, and all-around sin. When the tides turned, Crowley would just hop back across the pond and report it all a success. Being a woman in this time was also rather freeing, and Crowley had needed a change after the eighty-seven-year-nap had put a damper on their mood.

With a sway in her step and a pair of smoky pince-nez on her nose, Crowley arrived in a snap at the party, which was already in full swing. And wasn’t that the point of being fashionably late to every event? One didn’t need to start up the revelry if it was already moving. The distance from revelry to full-on sin was just a push in the right direction. Or wrong direction. 

Crowley knew she was turning heads as she walked up through the wrought iron gates at the front of the mansion. Such security, for a man that never showed his face to begin with. Curiosity killed the cat, so to speak, and Crowley liked cats, and her own anonymity. Perhaps she’d give infamy a try next decade. For now, she twirled through the crowds, a perpetually-full coupe of champagne barely held by slender, painted nails. Every so often she would throw her head back and laugh raucously, sending shivers of lust through the spines of the men around her. She knew them by face: politicians, chiefs of police, businessmen, all of them married and all of them uncaring. Her demonic coworkers preferred to tempt in a certain direction, and Crowley preferred to be the magnet herself. 

It was a suspended moment of joy, she knew. History had told her that these moments of happiness were as fleeting as bubbles in champagne, as perishable as confetti after a party. The cool, clear weather preceding a storm. The summer was always likely to go out with a bang, if she knew New York. Even now, in the cool September air, she smelled a storm coming. For now, she enjoyed seeing her stars, twinkling hello.

Two things happened that evening in quick succession which caught Crowley by surprise. The first was a distinct ringing of a bell, a familiar A sharp that Crowley had known since before music ever was put to paper. The second was a string of words naught spoken frequently by any other partygoer that Crowley had ever met, save one.

“I would love to see the library!”

She whipped around, hair miraculously staying in place because that was what it was expected to do. Golden eyes flicked through the crowd, seeking the angel amidst humanity. There were several long seconds which gripped Crowley in panic, when she couldn’t find her angel.

And then.

Aziraphale was not one to take change lightly. Aziraphale was an angel of certain comforts, and those comforts usually sat in dressing the same, and being of the same corporation. Tonight was the night that shook Crowley’s brain like it were a fragile Christmas present.

Aziraphale was ascending the stairs to an upper level of the house behind a man, and she gleamed like an illuminated manuscript. She wore a formless, beaded silk sheath, with golden fringe trim about the hem, her hips, and her neckline. The silvery-white bob framed her face perfectly, and the only daring part of her look that Crowley could see was the gash of red about her lips. As it was, her lips were turned into a pleased smile, radiant as she walked. Had Crowley a heart that was necessary for bodily functions, it would have given out at the first moment she saw her.

In a way which seemed most undemonic of her, Crowley crashed through the crowd, nearly getting singed by a stray cigarette. Skidding sharply at the foot of the stairs, she felt her low heels creak with effort to stay attached to the rest of her shoes. _Floors need more wax_ , her mind supplied, the first coherent thought she’d had since spotting Aziraphale. Quite a few men had watched her streak through the ballroom, but quickly had forgotten what they were looking for as she lunged up the stairs.

It had been over a hundred years since she’d seen Aziraphale, much less conversed with her. This was a rather large shock to come across. They hadn’t spoken since the Incident, as Crowley was calling it, and it had pained Crowley to not speak to her angelic counterpart. _Other half_ , her mind again, unhelpfully, supplied. The stairs disappeared behind her feet as she rushed after Aziraphale.

She found the man who’d escorted the angel upstairs dazedly walking away from an open doorway, some ecstatic smile on his face. Clearly, he’d been a little more than charmed. Aziraphale always seemed to overdo it with that blessing in particular. Crowley made sure he wasn’t coming back, before slipping into the room and closing the door.

Her angel was already lost in perusing the library, a hushed benevolence for the mass amount of books in her midst. Aziraphale didn’t seem to like American authors as much as other countries’, but soft, manicured hands were reaching for a tome of Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ in impeccable condition, most likely a first edition to “acquire” for the shop back home.

“I don’t think hosts appreciate strangers pilfering their books, doll.” Crowley teased from her spot at the door, one plush red lip in her teeth, containing her wolfish grin.

It had the effect she wanted; Aziraphale jumped about a foot in the air, clutching the book to her bosom protectively. “You—!” She gasped, shocked. Emotions flitted across her face, more difficult to keep a poker face in this corporation. Crowley could recognize surprise, then recognition, then some steely resolve which confusingly turned into a deep sadness before settling on a coquettish smile. “I don’t actually think he reads these, they’d do better in a proper home.” Crowley pushed off of the door, sauntering to the reading area which sported a few overstuffed armchairs and a large velvet sofa just asking to have someone be ravished upon it. Crowley chose the arm of one of the chairs, crossing her legs at the knee.

Crowley very nearly discorporated as her angel stepped from around the table concealing her. She could clearly see Aziraphale’s _en vogue_ bob now, a glittering headband decorating that divine forehead of hers. A long string of pearls adorned her neck, matching a bracelet on her wrist. The dress had pulled tighter against her hips, which Crowley knew were voluptuous despite the dress, and nothing could drag her eyes from the exposed _ankles_ that sat obscenely in sheer stockings just above her shoes. The skin there was smooth and unblemished, and Crowley’s mouth went dry as she thought about dragging those stockings down those legs with her _teeth._

Aziraphale set the book on the table and took a seat on the velvet couch, still coyly defending her thievery. “It would be appreciated more in my hands.”

“You know what they used to do to the hands of thieves who were caught?” Crowley slipped off the armchair and toward the couch. “You wouldn’t be able to wear pretty bracelets anymore, angel.” One long nail boldly traced under the pearls at Aziraphale’s wrist. An imperceptible shudder raced through the other woman, and little goosebumps raised hairs on her arm. She stuttered her reply, losing confidence. 

“Well I won’t be caught if I’m not turned in. I’m sure petty theft is hardly a blip on the map of this man’s concerns.” Crowley grinned. 

“Well, maybe not to him, but I have a friend with a bookshop who would take most unkindly to the theft of any book. I might have to turn you in to them, and let them decide the punishment.” Aziraphale was pouting now, lips nearly as obscene as those blessed ankles. “Unless…?”

Surprise flashed in those bright blue eyes. “Unless what?”

“Well it seems like I could just go run and tattle on you, couldn’t I?” Crowley turned her head towards the door. “And I don’t think that would bode well for whatever you’re trying to do here. Can’t get far with a few books weighing you down.” She’s not yet expressed her terms of silence. Aziraphale was waiting on bated breath. “And seeing as we’re strangers, no one _has_ to know…” Crowley sipped from her champagne, hoping Aziraphale would just forget their fight in St. James Park and have a little fun.

More emotions crossed her face as Crowley waited for a reply. Affronted. Confused. Affronted again. And then… there was that coy smile once more.

“If you are assuming... that I would… indulge… in what you’re implying…” and oh, isn’t this just like the inception of their Agreement at the Globe four hundred years ago. It sends a thrill down Crowley’s spine. “Then perhaps I could get with the times and try bribery. Just this once.” She’s breathless as she agrees to play the part. They don’t even have anybody watching them this time, not like in Venice, not like in Vauxhall.

“I’ll take that as a yes, angel.” Crowley surged forward, pressing her lips to the other’s. They kissed haltingly, getting used to the stiff waxy lipstick smearing everywhere on impact. Aziraphale’s brighter red mixed with Crowley’s deep burgundy, creating a passionate hue dipped in shadow. Soft, desperate breaths left them as they held one another closer, closer.

 _She’s so warm, I could just burn alive and I wouldn’t care,_ Crowley felt these thoughts etch their way into her soul as she devoured the lust radiating off of her angel. In turn, Aziraphale drank deep of the passion and care that Crowley spilled so willingly from her mouth. They fed each others’ souls equally, taking and wanting more all the same.

Before Crowley could suggest more, an icy panic rushed through her. “We can’t.” She gasped, pulling back. “I thought we could but—“

A warm hand encircled her wrist, urging her to stay. “No one would know. It’s just us and the books, please.” Those eyes were clouded with want, nearly black, the pupils were so wide. Crowley almost Fell again, and would Fall again, to take her seat one more. But there was more at stake here than just a few moments of indulgence. She shook her head.

“I won’t spill the beans on your robbery, doll.” No more ‘angel’, then. “Take a few more. My lips are sssealed.” She cursed herself inwardly, and turned on her heel. “See you around.”

And with that, the demon fled like she was on holy ground. They wouldn’t meet again until she was walking back onto it.

* * *

> New York City, 1966

Truman Capote was hosting a party. Bored rich people in New York often did so, but this time was different. There was an air of exclusivity to it, which drew two ethereal beings like moths to a flame. The Black and White Ball, as it was touted, took nearly six months to plan and had the whole Eastern seaboard tittering in excitement. Celebrities and debutantes and actors and New York elite all had invitations, and it wasn’t too difficult to miraculously acquire one by chance.

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was going to show. She had an inkling as soon as they’d caught wind of it in London. As was almost tradition at this point, Crowley was a New York woman, some ginger expat from Jolly Old London, living life to its fullest before the bubble burst. When you have eternity to live, there wasn’t much use moping about every war that humans thought up. War wasn’t the only redhead who could foment chaos.

Tattinger champagne flowed freely from glasses, celebrating some newspaper editor or the other. The reason for the party was only a smoke screen for the real revelry indoors.

Crowley was in some oversized sunglasses, a rotten excuse for a mask, but she craved the scandal that came with not following dress code. Her slinky black silk dress dipped and pulled in all the right places, leading to all the wrong kinds of stares. She scanned the crowd dutifully, ensuring there was just enough sin making its rounds through the place.

“Rather dreadful affair, hm?” A voice cut in at her left. Crowley grinned at the air of anonymity. Aziraphale was standing properly, taller than her for once, and wearing a plain white mask edged with gold. Old habits die hard when you can’t necessarily _die._

“Darling.” Crowley greeted the angel with a kiss to the cheek. “Thought you’d leave me all alone and dance with the buffet all night.” Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s waist, making the whole illusion solidify. _Two familiar souls in an unfamiliar place._

“Never, not when you’re looking as ravenous as you do right now.” Crowley laughed.

“ _You’re_ ravenous. _I’m_ ravishing.” She corrected, teasing and leaning into the touch.

“That you are, my dear. Shall we dance?”

“I don’t think Mr. Capote would favor a gavotte.” They start moving toward the group of couples on some parquet flooring.

“I may have been brushing up on more contemporary things behind your back.” His confession is paired with a sly but warm smile, hands finding hands finding waists and shoulders.

“Well show me to my front, then.”

They swayed with the music, falling into the rhythm and style of the other dancers, spinning and turning and twirling in time with the tempo of the band. Crowley didn’t want to show off _too_ much, but she let Aziraphale dip her low to the floor, warm breath upon her neck as time suspended itself for this moment. She looked up, glasses just a tad askew so their eyes could lock across the distance. A thousand things went left unsaid between them, a strong thrum tugging the string between their hearts.

“Mark my words, angel, you’ll be mine as I’m yours.” Crowley said softly, vulnerability seeping through the spaces between words.

“I believe I already am,” came the ringing answer, taking the breath from Crowley’s lungs as he pulled her from the floor. Her hair was askew, and his hand came up to sweep it back. The signet ring, normally kept on his pinky, was now sported upon the finger next to it. The wings had become a snake, from what Crowley could see. Tears welled in her eyes, full of unshed affection. Her glasses pushed themselves back up her nose, and she grasped the angel before her to hide her expression. They swayed to a slow, sad song that only they could hear.

The night was neither successful nor a failure for Heaven and Hell, but it was a victory for love, and for loneliness, and for hope, and for longing.

They conversed over food and wine as they always did, as comfortable holding hands as they were walking side by side in the park. “You know I think I want to buy a gun.” Crowley said suddenly, filled with sorrow as their conversation turned to the recent string of murders, both in Chicago and Riverside, California. “A woman has to protect herself these days. Can’t go anywhere alone, can’t even stay home.”

“I can protect you.” The angel vehemently insisted. “Why would you need something that could harm you in turn?” Crowley looked up and realized they weren’t really talking about firearms. Her supposed husband looked rather put out, and hurt by her suggestion. She paused, taking a drink of wine.

“I don’t have a death wish. I’m certainly not asking for one. There are worse fates than death, is all I’m saying.” Her words were chosen carefully, and punctuated with another sip of wine. “Sometime this decade, you should trust me.”

“Trust you.” He whispered, more in shock than anything. “I’d sooner trust you with a car than a gun.” This lightened the mood, which was needed. The sadness of angels was a hard thing to look away from. As was Crowley in a dress.

“Let’s dance more, talk less. I wanna remember you in this suit, not the frown on your face.” Crowley offered her hand and stood, bitterness dissolving like the taste of wine.

They held each other tightly, feeling a storm raging in their hearts, so close as they were to each other.

* * *

> London, 2019

Aziraphale was pacing in Crowley’s body, and Crowley was drinking heavily in Aziraphale’s. There was a steep learning curve to understanding one another on a biological level. Luckily, they were both a quick read and had already known one another for six thousand years, so it didn’t take long. It didn’t mean Aziraphale wasn’t complaining.

“How do you stand still like this? Your spine is rubber!” Crowley’s body danced around a corner, almost tilted back at a ninety-degree angle.

“Snake.” Crowley mumbled, resigning himself to his inevitable death. Aziraphale’s body wasn’t necessarily meant for moping, that was better suited to the dramatic poses his original body was capable of. Aziraphale returned with some snacks he’d most likely miracled over from some chippy on the corner. “M’ not eating that.” He said, drunk. “You’re. M’body’s not eating that.” He corrected.

“Well it’s not _your_ body right now, is it?” Aziraphale-as-Crowley snapped, then cowed at his tone. “That came out meaner than expected, but really, my dear boy, could you lighten up? You cannot fool them if you aren’t confident that this will work.”

“You’re not confident at all around them, angel, ‘m doing m’part.” Crowley lolled his head to the side, affixing Aziraphale with a sassy look. “I think they’ll spend all night delib-deli-debilerate—whatever, arguing, over the best course of action, you don’t need to keep pacing. Better die drunk than upset.” He cheered his own logic and drank from the bottle once more.

“I think that’s enough. You should sober up and think rationally about this.” The angel scolded, grabbing the bottle from the demon’s hands. Crowley shook his head stubbornly. _If I’m sober, I think about the bookshop on fire, I think about losing you, I think about how this dream is just a dream, and this bubble will pop, this is just confetti—_

Music started to play from Crowley’s record player. It was an old tune, one he usually kept on just for appearance’s sake, to impress the plants more than anything. He lolled his head to where Aziraphale had just dropped the needle. A long, slender hand was being offered to him. It took a little effort, but he took it and stood. It was more contact than they’d had in fifty-three years, and Crowley fell into it like he was born to.

_They asked me how I knew_

_My true love was true_

_Oh, I of course replied_

_Something here inside cannot be denied…_

The song hit Crowley like a freight train, and he held his angel close, with all the need he felt for six thousand years pouring through his body effortlessly. Angels were meant to love, and love fiercely, and their corporations had to be able to convey that. Crowley hardly realized he was crying into Aziraphale’s shoulder, gripping him like he’d fall away into dust and ashes. They danced through the weight of the world, the weight of their yearning and longing for one another. Centuries of pretending to be close just to step away when the feelings were too much to overwhelm. 

_When your heart’s on fire_

_Smoke gets in your eyes…_

“I won’t let you die again. You won’t burn again.” Crowley babbled to a shoulder, drowning in sorrow thick as tar. 

“My darling, I would never let that happen. I’d fight heaven and hell for you, you know that now. This is our side.” Aziraphale shook the demon in his arms. “I hope to prove that to you.”

* * *

> South Downs, 2025

They both knew the waltz quite well by this time. It had been an utter mess the first time.

_“One, two, three, one, two, three...one...one…Good, now look up here, Angel.”_

Throughout their forms and their various escapades through time, they had not forgotten this: how their hands slide together perfectly, how their hips fill one another’s hands with ease, the warm flex of fingers on a back, the brush of fabric against their legs, the soft breath upon one another’s lips. Their hearts kept a tattoo, bodies falling into rhythm once more. Aziraphale would be reminded of the breathless impact of the Blitz when their chests press together, hearts united once more. Crowley was reminded of a white wing offering protection from the rain.

This dance was different. No masks. Just them, as they were, in their home. The furniture was pushed against the walls, making room for them as they twirled around to music they hummed through kisses and laughs. The sun set and rose, and still they danced, out of the living room and through the garden and around the cottage and back inside and upstairs and downstairs.

When they needed to rest, they held one another close, still locked together even motionless. They pressed their foreheads together and kissed, finding a new dance to enjoy, just as exciting and each move more intimate than the last. A kiss to a shoulder here, a hand in hair, a leg around a hip. “Look up here, my love.” Aziraphale would say, beckoning attention freely.

And his love would obey, grinning and laughing, happiness spilling unbound from them. It was nothing short of a miracle that they could express this unbridled joy. Aziraphale strove every day to coax it out. In a way, Aziraphale was the one forming stars, holding that warmth in his hand, deciding each supernova of love with care and accuracy. 

It was not something they spoke about frankly, for words would not be able to describe the feelings they felt, nor the bond they had sown. The love they were paid in was long overdue for the service they had given, and they didn’t know who to thank for that.

While the world turned, they did as well, in each other’s arms, masks off. 


End file.
